[Illustration: DAWLISH WARREN.]
There is a spit of land that runs across the estuary of the Exe, and as
the centuries pass, the sea plays pranks with it. A few hundred years
ago the tideway opened to the West, not far from the red cliffs that
tower there, and then Exmouth and the Warren were one; but now it is at
Exmouth that the long sands are separated from the shore and, past that
little port, the ships go up the river, while the eastern end of the
Warren joins the mainland. So it has stood within man's memory; but now,
as though tired of this arrangement, wind and sea are modifying the
place again, for the one has found a new path in the midst, and the
other has blown at the sand dunes until their heads are reduced by many
feet from their old altitude.
These sands are many-coloured, for over the yellow staple prevails a
delicate and changing harmony of various tones, now rose, now blue, as
though a million minute shining particles were reflecting the light of
the sky and bringing it to earth on their tiny surfaces. But in truth
these tender shades show where the sand is weathered, for if we walk
upon it and break the thin crust created by the last rain, the dream
tints depart, and a brighter corn colour breaks through. Coarse
mat-grass binds the dunes and helps to hold them together against the
forces of wind and water; but their tendency is to decrease. Perhaps
observation would prove that their masses shift and vanish more quickly
than we guess, for the sand is the sea's toy, and she makes and unmakes
her castles at will.
As a lad, I very well remember the silvery hills towering to little
mountains above my head; and again I can hear the gentle tinkle of the
sand for ever rustling about me where I basked like a lizard in some
sun-baked nook. I remember the horrent couch grass that waved its ragged
tresses above me, and how I told myself that the range of the sand dunes
were great lions with bristling manes marching along to Exmouth.
Presently they would swim across to the shore and eat up everybody, as
soon as they had landed and shaken themselves. And the mud-flats I loved
well also, where the sea-lavender spread its purple on sound land above
the network of mud. I flushed summer snipe there and often lay
motionless to watch sea-birds fishing. Many wild flowers flourished and
the glass-wort made the flats as red as blood in autumn. It was a
dreamland of wonders for me, and now I was seeking mermaids' purses in
the tide-fringe and sorrowing to find them empty; now I was after
treasure-trove flung overboard from pirate ships, now hunting for the
secret hiding-places of buccaneers in the dunes.
The ships go by still; but not the ships I knew; the flowers still
sparkle in the hollows and brakes; but their wonder has waned a little.
No more shall I weave the soldanella and sea-rocket and grey-green wheat
grass into crowns for the sea-nymphs to find when they come up from the
waves in the moonlight.
It is a place of sweet air and wonderful sunshine. On a sunny day, with
the sand ablaze against the blue sky, one might think oneself in some
desert region of the East; but then green spaces, scarlet flags and a
warning "fore!" tell a different story. For golfers have found the
Warren now. Where once I roamed with only the gulls above and rabbits
below for company, and for music the sigh of the wind in the bents and
the song of the sea, half a hundred little houses have sprung up, and
bungalows, red and white and green, throng the Warren. At hand is a
railway-station, whence hundreds descend to take their pleasure, while
easterly this once peaceful region is most populous and the Exmouth
boats cross the estuary and land their passengers.
One does not grudge the joy of the place to townsfolk or golfers; one
only remembers the old haunt of peace, now peaceful no more, the old
beauties that have vanished under the little dwellings and little
flagstaffs, the former fine distinction that has departed.
Dawlish Warren now gives pleasure to hundreds, where once only the
dreamer or sportsman wandered through its mazes; and that is well; but
we of the old brigade, who remember its far-flung loneliness, its rare
wild flowers, its unique contours, its isolation and peculiar charm, may
be forgiven if we forget the twentieth century for a season and conjure
back the old time before us.
Topsham, in the estuary, wakens thoughts of the Danes and their sword
and fire, when Hungar and Hubba brought their Viking ships up the river,
destroyed the busy little port, and, pushing on, defeated St. Edmond,
King of the East Angles. The pagans scourged this Christian monarch
with whips, then bound him to a tree and slew him.
Tho' no place was left for wounds,
Yet arrows did not fail.
These furious wretches still let fly
Thicker than winter's hail.
So writes the old poet quoted by Risdon, who adds that the Danes,
cutting off St. Edmond's head, "contumeliously threw it in a bush."
But Topsham in Tudor times was a place of importance, a naval port, a
mart and road for ships. Thanks to weirs built across the waterway by
the Earls of Devon, Exeter began to lose its old-time trade, when the
tide was wont to ascend to the city. Therefore Exeter fought the earls,
and in the reign of Henry VIII. the city obtained a grant to cut a canal
from Topsham. Thus vessels of fifteen tons burthen could ascend to the
capital, and Topsham sank under the blow and lost its old importance.
Exmouth also figures in the reign of Edward I. as a naval port. In 1298
she contributed a fighting ship to the Fleet, and in 1347 sent ten
vessels to aid the third Edward's expedition against Calais. From
Exmouth, too, Edward IV. and Warwick, "the King Maker," embarked for the
Continent.
Risdon also makes mention of Lympston, another village in the estuary,
aforetime in the lordship of the Dynhams, "of which family John Dynham,
a valiant esquire siding with the Earl of March, took the Lord Rivers
and Sir Anthony his son at Sandwich in their beds, when he was hurt in
the leg, the 37th Henry 6."
The villages are worth a visit still, but Exmouth is best known to those
who visit Dawlish Warren now. For the open sea welcomes all who come
hither, and the little holiday homes that stand on either side of the
tidal stream are too few for those who would dwell here in July and
August if they could.
I have seen dawn upon the Exe, and watched the mists rise upon these
heron-haunted flats to meet the morning. Then the villages twinkle out
over the water, and a land breeze wakens the sleepy dunes, ruffles the
still waters and fills the red sails of little fishers that come down to
the sea.